surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Forsaken Love
She fell through the heavens the holy one. She got caught in arms that were warm but yet a shivering cold. She opens her eyes to see black eyes staring down upon her. His smile was seductive but yet cold and brittle. Her heart pounded like ancient drums of the past. He whispered something in her ear. His voice was deep and leery. He placed a kiss upon her head and said, "You are mine now." His kiss burned like a cigarette at midnight. She was paralyzed by his dark beauty. Once that kiss was placed upon her head she knew what he was. She wanted to be with him though she didn't know why and she knew that her father God above the almighty would never accept her love for the designated brute of the depths of hell. She knew that she would be forever cast out of the heavens for all eternity but she didn't care. She told the devil himself that she would forever be loyal to him. She already knew that the kiss intertwined them together and she would never be able to break the seal that was placed upon her. So now and forever she is the devil's bride.
By Heather Wheatley7 years ago in Poets
Not Growing Up with Fireflies
Not growing up with fireflies I knew no wonder (NO wonder)(truly no wonder, like some Roman scarred by bloodlust wavingsome bread/circus-tendered hand at some poor soulcondemned to die) which sounds dramatic–save for whenI hit one on a highway choked with tiger lilies,running through the town of Van Leer, Tennessee.I stared, dumbfounded, at the incandescent splatter(like some Roman, with one bourgeois ear to Pauland his Good News that even if you lacked religionyou had nature from the start to prove to you that God existed) and the wipers spread it thin–it faded as the skypaled bloodless into dawn, and I was struck (was STRUCK)(truly was struck, as though some parable had resonatedthrough my thick and Gentile mind) with its climactic disappearance,matching stroke for stroke the spangled cloudless blackwith neon lime, and then the aquamarine with a subtle sea-foam,and then the fading ochre-denim with a fading greenish-grey.Then, in light, of course, a spittle-seeming smear. I trustthe sunshine always to decry the mystery.It does not touch the memory that, clinging, now,invites me to hold forth (like some poor Romansinging candidly his praises to a deaf and dying god)(like some dead god, who, hearing him, must then exterminate humanityto make him see the error of his ways.)
By Devon Heavenshire7 years ago in Poets
The Good Witch
In an instant I knew where I was! The heat, the screams, oh damned be all. They sent me to the wrong place. I'm the good witch and was supposed to stay in purgatory to aid in the transition of the other fairies and witch goddess's to move freely threw this life to the next. Oh damned be,surely not me, the one who strived to do all things right! Now look at me all hot and sweaty, but with ease did I go and always to know thine enemy when a witch ye are!
By thomas coriell7 years ago in Poets